


Feast's End

by applecameron



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-01
Updated: 1998-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written sometime in 1998.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feast's End

Qui-Gon Jinn was drunk. It had sort of creeped up on him, with the feasting and carrying on. It was very important to the ming that he match them drink for drink, at this stage in the negotiation-ritual. Because a shared table, and shared revelry, helped foster comraderie, the ming had made feasting and drinking unto oblivion part of their diplomatic tradition for generations. It was, and he had reflected earlier on the wisdom of this practice, before the drinking started in earnest, hard and harder to wage war against a people with whom you had broken fast, with whom you had sung songs of each other's valor, with whom you had gotten truly, soddenly, drunk. Because then you knew one another as individuals, not as a blank-faced Enemy. Probably because of this practice, the ming had never successfully waged genocide amongst their varied communities, like so many others on different planets had.

Diplomatic missions to the ming were not for the faint of heart. Or stomach. Obi-Wan Kenobi was passed out by the table, with several other ming unconscious to keep him company. It would be considered the height of rudeness, to the ming, a deliberate slap to the Jedi sent as diplomats, if Qui-Gon's padawan were the only one lying on the ground. Master Jinn had not been able to figure out if the ming keeping his apprentice company were actually somehow selectively unconscious, or just 'faking it' for etiquette's sake.

As it was, he himself was not in the most stable frame of mind. His counterpart, diplomatically speaking, raised a glass again and toasted in the Jedi's honor. Qui-Gon lifted his own drink, having forgotten the name of it, spoke the appropriate response, and drained his glass.

He woke up in bed, with a dry mouth. Obviously, the feast had been a success. With the guests of honor -- representatives of the warring party -- successfully fed and swilled into oblivion, they had become part and parcel of the hosting party's festivities. Together, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had demonstrated great trust when they placed their own drunken welfare in their host's hands.

All in all, a good bit of negotiating. The next day would involve actual treaty discussions, after the hangover-banishment ritual. Qui-Gon rolled over and draped himself over his padawan. At least the ming had *all* aspects of this drunken negotiation technique covered, by ritualizing the recuperation process as well. The hangover ritual involved a long, large communal breakfast, consumed in complete silence, and various hangover remedies. Most practical.

Then he backed up and realized he'd just draped himself over his padawan. The bed was too small. He sighed. The beds were always too small. Qui-Gon rolled over onto his own side and went back to sleep.

Only to wake up some time later with his padawan draped over him. Obi-Wan had scooched up such that his head was off the pallet and he was snoring lightly. One arm and leg were extended over Qui-Gon's body.

Master Jinn spent a moment in contemplation. What was the true worth of using the Force to relocate his apprentice? Negligible. Unworthy. Qui-Gon fitted his own arm over his padawan's waist, leaned his forehead into Obi-Wan's chest, and fell instantly asleep.

Sunlight. It was mid-morning. Obi-Wan was awake, watching him. He was stroking Qui-Gon's neck with his thumb, appearing completely serene, waiting for his master to wake. Jinn moved his head up a little bit and the stroking stopped. His arm was still wrapped around Obi-Wan's waist.

"Good morning, master. I hope the quarters weren't too close for you." In the dim light of their room, Obi-Wan's eyes were unusually bright.

It was inevitable. Their lips met with a fluid motion, coming together as if they'd been kissing one another every morning for all their time together. Obi-Wan's hand slipped around his neck and they pulled one another closer, Qui-Gon finally rolling to put his padawan on top of him.

The two came up for air a subjective eternity later, though the angle of the sun had not yet changed in the window. Obi-Wan's lower lip was intensely attractive, so Qui-Gon attacked it, cradling his padawan's head in his hands, suckling and caressing until Obi-Wan moaned.

That moan was beautiful, a mere precursor to what lay ahead of them that morning.

"Padawan."

"Master."

The removal of clothing became a dance. A slow seduction punctuated by laughter as they struggled not to fall off the bed. 

Just as they were mostly disrobed and things looked to be growing extremely interesting -- or at least growing -- someone knocked at the door.

It was time for breakfast.

They had to laugh. Obi-Wan tumbled out of the bed, narrowly missing a swat from Qui-Gon. "Breakfast time, Master!" He grinned, pulling his clothing back on. "Then meeting with the Cil, then another meeting, and after that will be tonight's lesser feast, then --"

Qui-Gon moved, fluidly, a nude portrait of grace crossing the room in the sunlight. He stood in front of Obi-Wan, hands on the other man's hipbones, pulling them close for one last caress. "Be sure not to lose your focus," he murmured, kissing the bare skin of Obi-Wan's neck, "during the council meeting. Be mindful of the moment, but do not lose sight of our ultimate goal, padawan."

Obi-Wan kissed him back and time stood still. "I have closer goals in mind today, as well, Master."

Qui-Gon smiled.

***

Time passed, successfully. Breakfast flowed into their first meeting, with the ming Cil, the council of religious leaders. The two Jedi were saluted for having honored their hosts the previous night. Qui-Gon gathered he had remained at least reasonably eloquent. Obi-Wan had gained much prestige in the ming's eyes, by gifting them with stories from his childhood. Old folktales from when his grandmother's mother was alive. According to their hosts, the younger, more fashionable, ming were already taken with his storytelling style, and one of the Cil leaders confided in Qui-Gon that it was glad to see their peoples were similar enough to appreciate one another's bloodline-tales. Stories of the village, was the meaning of the words used in high ming. It was a good sign.

There was a small recess after lunch, which was light, served indoors, and accompanied with music and dance. During the recess Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon found themselves strolling through one of the gardens by the Cil tower. They said nothing, didn't touch, didn't even look at each other, until the recess was over and a young ming had been sent to guide them to the next meeting.

"Master."

"Padawan."

And that was all.

 

After the second round of meetings late in the afternoon, Qui-Gon returned to the Jedi's quarters to rest. Obi-Wan should be along shortly, he had been asked to join a group of ming artists for cultural discussions. Storytelling, to be specific. Although meeting with them didn't directly enhance the treaty discussions between the ming and the parties the Jedi represented, Qui-Gon was eager to have his apprentice partake in such a gathering. Anything that made the Jedi negotiators more acceptable to the ming was beneficial in the long term.

He meditated, breathing in and out in a regulated fashion, becoming one with the Force. Not moving when, finally, Obi-Wan opened the door to their quarters and entered. Qui-Gon's padawan took in the scene, then dropped to assume a meditative stance in front of his master.

It was much later, when, refreshed and centered, the two Jedi ceased meditating and opened their eyes.

"Master."

"Padawan."

Obi-Wan looked about the room for a moment. "About this morning."

Qui-Gon was still on his knees. "Are you having second thoughts, Obi-Wan?" He spoke gently. Due to the delicate balance of power between a master and padawan, a master could not pursue romantic entanglements without risk. But, in the end, one either knew or did not know one's own heart, and ignored passions could lead to the Dark Side just as easily as ignored fears. It was the ignoring, the suppression, that wreaked damage, the refusal to face one's own self.

"I only ask if a....romance between master and padawan is acceptable, Master." Obi-Wan looked a little smaller, slightly worried. "To you and the Jedi council."

"It is unlike you to worry, Obi-Wan. Always, you do the right thing without thinking about it. It is one of your strengths, your natural trust in the Force." Qui-Gon moved as he spoke, pulling  
his hair back and winding a strip of cloth about it. "What do your feelings tell you? What did they tell you this morning?" 

Obi-Wan focused off into the distance for a moment. "That it is a good thing I ask the question, Master, because if I did not, the answer would have been 'no'. My heart tells me I am old enough."

Qui-Gon nodded and leaned forward, stroking his apprentice's cheek with one thumb, cradling his face gently. "In this matter, I agree."

Obi-Wan began removing his master's clothing in response and Qui-Gon smiled fondly: "What time is it, Padawan?" His apprentice looked about the room again and grimaced, then smiled with his fundamental youthful good humour. 

"Time for the feast, Master. Shall we go?"

 

***

 

It had been hard enough relinquishing control of the general proceedings to drink as ming diplomatic custom demanded, when the Jedi code advocated maintaining self-awareness and control. Though, Jedi training also emphasized recognizing a moment for its true self and flowing with it. Life, Master Yoda often stressed, is full of contradictions. And suprises. Still, knowing that the two Jedi, master and apprentice, might spend the night enjoying one another's company in an intimate fashion, if only they were sober enough to do the enjoying, was an element of frustration.

That frustration, however, provided a new insight for the two diplomats -- surely, such conflicts must have been encountered before, and if so, were they not also absorbed into negotiation- ritual, like so much else? Qui-Gon Jinn spoke with his apprentice under cover of a new course being served, and watched with approval at Obi-Wan's skillful manevouring of the conversation with his fellow diners. The younger Jedi was holding his liquor much better tonight. It looked as if they both would last through the fourth course, if not further.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover the meaning of the lesser feast -- it ended after only 9 courses, or so the two Jedi were told, instead of the previous night's 10. Obi-Wan had earlier inquired about that evening being a 'lesser' feast and their table wound up regaled with the story of sinthur, the ming monarch who had established various rituals at the start of its rule, many generations ago. sinthur had treated with its enemies for 10 days, each feast followed by a lesser one, such that the last feast was the least elaborate, involving enemies eating from the same bowl and drinking from the same cup. An elegant system for making friends of one's opponents. As an added benefit, the two Jedi could look forward to nights when they might be sober enough to walk to their room with only an escort.

Obi-Wan did last through the fourth course, not slumping out of his chair -- followed by a troop of drunken ming as pursuant to his diplomatic rank -- until the middle of the 5th course. Qui-Gon remembered the 6th course being served, and something about the color orange, and nothing else.

***

Waking in Obi-Wan's arms was a treat better enjoyed without a hangover, Qui-Gon hoped. That morning's kiss was just as breathtaking, and just as interrrupted as the previous day's waking. 

The next days of negotiation passed similarly. Each morning the two Jedi managed just a kiss, maybe two, each with greater passion than the day before, and then their energy was directed into their diplomatic duties. The occasional comparing of mental notes during a garden walk or brief meditation was all the time the master and padawan could share. Their joint humour was excellent, anticipation sharpening both men's enjoyment of the meetings, cultural events, and feasts they shared in. The ming seemed inordinately pleased with the progression of the negotiation, and the zest with which their visitors approached the matter.

***

That evening there were only 5 courses. For the first time, Qui-Gon remembered the feast actually ending. There was nothing spectacular, just a final performance by a single dancer. The dance was called, aptly enough, "feast's end", and it told the story of sinthur, its allies and enemies all sleeping together before the fire in the monarch's great hall.

Qui-Gon would have carried Obi-Wan, even just to take advantage of the opportunity to clasp his apprentice close, but his ming guides wouldn't hear of it. The younger man was carried by several ming who had acted as servers during the feast, and deposited gently on the small bed they shared. Master Jinn left his padawan tucked in to sit and meditate before the fire, minding the progression of the night's inebriating drinks through his body. At some point, he slipped into a kneeling doze.

It was some hours later that the Force rippled, locally, as Obi-Wan reached out for him upon waking. "Master?"

"Padawan." Qui-Gon turned his head slightly. The fire had burned down, and he reached to add a log, hearing his padawan approach and crouch behind him. "Are you well?"

"Well enough." Obi-Wan clasped him from behind.

"Well enough for what?" Qui-Gon adjusted the fire, then turned in his padawan's grasp. Smiling at the orange light playing across Obi-Wan's features.

"For this." Their lips met. This kiss would not be interrupted. They undressed, slowly, in the firelight.

Obi-Wan was beautiful. Qui-Gon had seen him in a myriad of ways, through the eyes of a parent, a caretaker, a taskmaster and teacher, and slowly but surely, a colleague. Never before with the eyes of a lover. It meant something, this change in awareness. He kneeled, unhurriedly removing the last of his padawan's clothing, then shifted at the demand of Obi-Wan's hands on his trousers. The fire was warm, and the two men lay on their sides, free hands roaming as they kissed. 

"Master."

"Padawan."

"My beloved master," Obi-Wan's voice was like velvet, dripping poetry from his lips, soft vocalizations as he rolled over onto Qui-Gon. Slowly tracing down Qui-Gon's body with his mouth. The Jedi master cradled Obi-Wan's head in his hands, amazed at the perfect fit. This new vision.

"This is important." He mused aloud.

"Your body knows the truth, always trust it. Did you not say that, Master Qui-Gon?" Obi-Wan grinned his way up and down his master's bare leg, rubbing his braid on the inside of Qui-Gon's thigh.

"In a manner of speaking. Tell me what you see, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon was propped up on his elbows, his padawan hunched at his feet, staring up him the length of his body.

"You, master." The twinkle in the other man's eyes was muted and serious, locked on his face as he climbed back up until their noses touched. "With new eyes."

"Always, there is something new to learn." Qui-Gon said with the air of a quote.

"I'm not sleeping with Master Yoda." Obi-Wan kissed him pointedly, arching as Qui-Gon's arms wrapped around his waist and squeezed, hard. Slithered against him, eyes shut. Feeling the space between their bodies shrink.

Carefully, they rolled to switch positions, Qui-Gon taking his time to feel his way with the palm of his hand down Obi-Wan's frame, reaching underneath him to cup a buttock. Finally, letting his hair and beard stroke his padawan's groin, he settled into place between Obi-Wan's spread thighs and focused his attention on the tip of his tongue, paying his respects to the slit in the soft fleshy tip of Obi-Wan's erection. His padawan gasped.

"Master."

"Padawan."

"Master." It was much softer this time, like a caress. Slowly, Qui-Gon widened his attention to the pink crown of flesh, lapping with his tongue as he warmed Obi-Wan's shaft with one stroking palm. Fingers of one hand spread at the base of his padawan's back, Qui-Gon suckled gently until Obi-Wan's exhalation upgraded to a guttural moan. "Master." Obi-Wan's legs parted wider and he pushed into his master's hand. Slowly, gently, Qui-Gon engulfed his apprentice with his mouth, and pushed into him with his thumb.

Obi-Wan rocked into him, back arching as he strained to fit into Qui-Gon's mouth and hand at the same time. "Oh...Master." Unable to stay still, Obi-Wan's hands spread out for purchase on the floor of their quarters. His padawan's taste was new, but familiar. Warm flesh he scraped gently with his teeth and Obi-Wan groaned, making a more immediate response in the sudden bloom that filled his mouth further. Qui-Gon purred in the back of his throat at the intimacy, the completeness, of their connection.

Qui-Gon moved their bodies in unison, listening with his heart, his hands, and his soul to the pleasure building in his padawan's body. Waited for the perfect moment, when Obi-Wan was panting, flushed pink all over in the firelight, his hips rolling and snapping in response to Qui-Gon's lightest touch. "Master," came the hoarse cry, again and again until Obi-Wan's body went rigid around Qui- Gon's thumb. Sitting up, stomach muscles tight and wet with sweat, his padawan cried out wordlessly, a long call that echoed through Qui-Gon's body as warm seed spilled into his mouth.

Qui-Gon kept them both still, withdrawing his hand to run his palms along Obi-Wan's smooth hips, gentling him until his padawan's breathing slowed, and his fading erection slipped out of Qui-Gon's mouth. He did not swallow, instead spat into his hands and stroked himself with that simple lubricant.

Obi-Wan's eyes were shut. "Master?"

"Padawan." Layer upon layer of meaning in that simple word. 

He lay next to Obi-Wan, soaking up the high heat of the other's skin. The room smelled like their sweat and the odor of loving. Obi-Wan's body glistened in the firelight, the colors on his skin rippling as he breathed. Obi-Wan took a long cleansing breath, and sat up, turning to his master and looking down at him with a gaze of infinite tenderness, backlit by the fire. 

"Ah, the stamina of youth." Qui-Gon whispered, rolling on his back. Obi-Wan straddled him, kneeling over Qui-Gon's hips. His padawan braid tickled Qui-Gon's chest. With his legs, Qui-Gon pulled a couple items of discarded clothing into a low pillow under his own hips, giving Obi-Wan a better-angled seat.

With great care, Qui-Gon's hands pressed against his hips, Obi-Wan lowered himself. In breathtaking increments, Qui-Gon was slowly enveloped by the warmth, the encompassing heat, of his padawan's body. Tight, so perfectly tight, so intimate. He closed his eyes and concentrated, letting Obi-Wan control the pace. Qui-Gon dug his fingers into his padawan's flesh and groaned, struggling...not...to...lift...his...hips.

"There." Obi-Wan's voice was low and serene, Qui-Gon's breath coming in short gasps. Hands ran up and down his chest and he groaned as he shifted inside Obi-Wan, barely able to keep his eyes open. Obi-Wan was smooth like tight velvet, and when he moved, Qui-Gon could not keep a coherent thought in his head.

There was no fire, but the flickering lights illuminating Obi-Wan's profile and chest was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. There was no air, and yet he still breathed, great gulping lungfuls that seemed hotter and hotter. Qui-Gon drank in with his open mouth the sight and sensation of Obi-Wan's body stroking up and down, engulfing him again and again. Someone was chanting, "padawan, oh my padawan", but it couldn't possibly be Qui-Gon, he had no voice at his command. Obi-Wan's lips parted as the padawan concentrated on their bodies moving together, riding him to the crest of some great mountain, and then the next, and the next, until the pleasure cleaved him in two, obliterating everything but the dancing light behind his eyes and that ecstatic, crying voice.

***

Sunlight. It was mid-morning. Obi-Wan was awake, stroking Qui-Gon's cheek with his thumb. They were huddled underneath the two Jedi's cloaks, on the floor before the fireplace.

"Good morning, Master. I hope the quarters weren't too close for you." Obi-Wan's eyes were glowing in the dim light.

"Not close enough, Padawan." Qui-Gon wrapped the other man up in his arms and kissed him thoroughly, not surrendering him when the inevitable interrupting knock came at the door.

*** 

The End


End file.
